Selected Poems
Confiscated: Fireworks
The anticipated fireworks show would start when my dad arrived
fresh from over-time, lugging the contraband to hide on our porch.
We sat on the stoop and twisted bent backwards, peeking in awe
Into shadows, where he unopened brilliant cellophane boxes.
He stacked mortars and rockets with colorful Mandarin names
Dad, skittish, darted about the yard, walk, hedges and next door
making plans where to set up, in the darkness, strategizing
geometry between street lights, through the tangle of trees
in front of connected subdivided exactly similar row houses
He placed a duct taped box packed tight with longneck Bud Bottles.
Suddenly, silver jets of spinning flame follow whistling rockets
Leaping into the sky, fountains of neon green sparks showers
Mortars launch crimson flares to fill our street with lightning
My father genuflects, blowing slowly on a smoldering punk rope
He peers, focused through his amber tilted halo, to light fuses
Then, my father's face became familiar as equal to mine own
Between rebellions rockets and red glare of patriotic songs
I became proud, not to be in America, but to be his only son.
fresh from over-time, lugging the contraband to hide on our porch.
We sat on the stoop and twisted bent backwards, peeking in awe
Into shadows, where he unopened brilliant cellophane boxes.
He stacked mortars and rockets with colorful Mandarin names
Dad, skittish, darted about the yard, walk, hedges and next door
making plans where to set up, in the darkness, strategizing
geometry between street lights, through the tangle of trees
in front of connected subdivided exactly similar row houses
He placed a duct taped box packed tight with longneck Bud Bottles.
Suddenly, silver jets of spinning flame follow whistling rockets
Leaping into the sky, fountains of neon green sparks showers
Mortars launch crimson flares to fill our street with lightning
My father genuflects, blowing slowly on a smoldering punk rope
He peers, focused through his amber tilted halo, to light fuses
Then, my father's face became familiar as equal to mine own
Between rebellions rockets and red glare of patriotic songs
I became proud, not to be in America, but to be his only son.
